


The Pledge King Dethroned

by inscarletsilence



Series: Devil's Dance Floor [1]
Category: X-Men First Class (2011) Carpe Brewski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fraternity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inscarletsilence/pseuds/inscarletsilence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the Carpe Brewski universe, all credit for which must go to the amazing <a href="http://gyzym.livejournal.com/101616.html">Gyzym</a>. Gambit arrives at an ABG party with a truly breathtaking amount of stolen Zeta beer, and is crowned king of the pledges for the evening for his efforts. Naturally, the pledge king demands tribute from his loyal subjects, and Scott's offering makes Logan jealous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to my amazing frat bros Dickasaurus and Mite, who are entirely responsible for this nonsense, since they are the ones who encouraged me to start it :P
> 
> Based on an incredible piece of fanart I saw on tumblr, and the promise of ginger babies. The pic can be found [here](http://pinupper.tumblr.com/post/9343114228/x-men-goes-gay).

For a party to be a success, Remy thinks, it needs to have a few essential elements. He has ‘borrowed’ Logan’s truck and is sitting in the driver’s seat, smoking a cigarette. The cab of the truck already smells like stale tobacco, the pinch of it overwhelming the smell of motor oil and rust. Firstly, he needs to be present. Naturally. It’s not a party if he’s not there. Secondly, alcohol. A great quantity of alcohol, which he, preferably did not pay for. _LeBeau men do not pay for their booze_ , he thinks to himself, and sucks deeply on the Marlboro, as its end flares orange.

Remy watches the figures across from where he is parked on the street as they unload cases of beer from the trunk of a late model black sedan with the number plate ZETA01. And the final element for an evening to be considered a party, he thinks as he flicks the cigarette towards the filthy console ashtray, is that someone’s shit needs _to get fucked up_.

It doesn’t particularly matter who, or indeed how. But as far as Remy is concerned, if the pot remains unstirred by the end of the night, it wasn’t a party. He can hear confused shouts coming from the weathered porch at the front of the large double-storey house that dominates the street. A huge stack of beer cases sit by front door, and one of a number of young men are knocking loudly on is screen, apparently attempting to get the attention of someone inside. They give up on their fruitless labours and head around the side, presumably to a back entrance.

There’s no one inside the house. Remy has already made sure of that. He has also made sure that neither the front nor the back doors will open unless kicked down. He turns the key and starts the truck, reversing it with ease up the driveway of the Zeta pledge house, the driver’s side door swinging open. In a moment he is out of the cab and on the porch, and has grabbed a case of beer. He slings it into the vehicle’s tray as silently, as carefully, but ultimately as _quickly_ as possible, and then returns for another. And another, until the porch is empty again. Then he leaps back inside the driver’s seat and hits the gas, tyres screeching on the sparsely rocked driveway. Remy is chased down the street for about 500 metres by three Zeta pledges, their faces red with exertion and twisted with fear as they scream after him.

“Never leave your beer unattended, boys!” he chuckles to himself.

Several hours later Remy is sitting atop a throne made from open beer cases, wearing a cardboard crown made from one of the empty ones, drinking awful scotch made from _evil and incompetence_ out of a Finding Nemo glass. He has lost a boot and for some reason, his shoulder-length brown hair is in pigtails that unevenly fall across his back. One begins above his right ear and is tied with a rubber band, the other is half-heartedly braided from the base of his neck and is tied with, hello, that appears to be a shoelace.

“Another drink for the king of the pledges!” Erik shouts, myopically thrusting a beer in Remy’s general direction. Remy shakes his head, feeling the pigtails slap his neck.

“Non. No more beer, Magneto, I -” Remy burps. “I literally cannot drink another beer right now, man. I may never drink beer again.”

Erik grins at him, all teeth. _That_ , Remy thinks to himself, _is fuckin’ terrifying_. “Fuck that.” Erik pushes the can into Remy’s empty hand and continues, his eyes bright and his expression intense. “Stolen Zeta beer is the sweetest beer there is. Also, it needs to be all gone by the time they send the fucking cops here looking for it.”

Remy widens his eyes in an attempt to focus more clearly on Erik. It helps when he closes one, and squints up at him with the other. It is winter, but they are still outside, a huge bonfire ablaze in a steel drum surrounded by a few lawn chairs. Remy is glad for the soft tan jacket he is wearing, its hem falling close to his ankles. It is currently spread out behind him like a cape, as he lounges atop his cardboard throne, one leg crossed over the other at the knee. Erik is towering above him, wearing green cargo pants and a black hoodie. Remy looks down at the beer and then back up at Erik.

“Drink the evidence!” Remy suddenly shouts, tossing the scotch over his shoulder, Nemo glass and all. “All shall feast on the spoils of the pledge king!” He stands up now, shakily at first, his one boot steady, missing its lace, and his other foot, clad in a purple sock, waving crazily until he finds purchase on the slippery, paper surface of the throne. Erik grabs two more beers and whirls around, satisfied, looking for his next target.

Remy slides a hand inside his back jeans pocket and extracts a cigarette, holding it out directly in front of his face in an attempt to ensure he doesn’t try to light the filter end. Once he has it secured between his teeth he pats himself down, looking for the bulge of a lighter. His hands grope the pockets of the coat first, one at either side, before moving upwards to his chest for the pocket hidden there inside the lining, and then inside the coat to his jeans.

Somewhere in his seriously addled brain he knows that while tonight he may indeed be the king of the pledges, tomorrow he will be just be Gambit, the pledge no one quite trusts. And sure, he thinks as his fingers finally curl around the cold metal of his zippo lighter, showing up to a party with a truckload of stolen Zeta beer will certainly buy you one evening of easy, confident smiles – come the next morning those smiles will turn tentative and hesitant again. Remy knows this with the unwavering certainty of the eternally peripheral, someone who has never once been inside the inner circle.

He flicks the lighter open with a quick and graceful gesture, rapidly bringing it down his thigh. As the denim drags the mechanism and the flames catch he brings the lighter up and sinks his face downwards, bringing the cigarette to the almost imperceptible blue glow. Inhaling deeply, Remy decides to make the most of his one night of acceptance. He leers around the cigarette as smoke cascades from his mouth and nostrils, his eyes scanning the people assembled around him.

Charles is standing with Erik, the taller boy’s arm draped comfortably around him. Charles is nursing a beer in one hand and even from a distance Remy can see the rigid line he is making with the arm closest to Erik, as he is unable to return the easy touch of his friend. Remy clicks his tongue and shakes his head slightly.

His fellow pledges are all around him, enjoying the spoils of war. Remy sees Beast first, chugging from a bottle of something green and nasty-looking, surrounded by a rather large circle of girls. Eyebrows and Darwin are with the Professor’s sister, Raven, who is holding hands with Angel. Iceman, Pyro and Banshee are standing together, giggling like crazy. Remy spots the joint passing between them and smiles. Wasn’t there another one? he wonders. _Oh, yes. Prodigy. Probably off somewhere, studying. Weirdo_.

The party is well-attended and Remy does not recognise the majority of the people gathered in their yard. They are clumped together in small groups, threes and fours, fives and sixes, the delighted chatter of the thoroughly inebriated filling the air. Remy’s gaze lands on Scott, sitting on the porch of the frat house, one leg bent at the knee, the other slung in between the railings to dangle down over the edge of the porch. He is wearing black skinny jeans and dressy lace-up shoes with a pointed toe, and has a skin tight, grey v-neck long-sleeved shirt on under an immense, tassled black scarf. Remy notices that he is wearing a pair of what appear to be leather gloves, but instead of being fingerless, they are missing the whole pointer and pinkie. He raises his eyebrows at this, wondering where the hell that fucking hipster managed to find gloves like that, and sees what can only be the distinct shape of Logan sitting beside Scott. Logan’s back is clad in a filthy grey wife-beater against the porch railings and he’s facing away from the rest of the party. Judging by the severe set of Logan’s back and the vicious grin on Scott’s face, Remy decides that they are arguing, because since when are they not arguing?

“The king of the pledges demands tribute!” Remy barks, turning his gaze back towards the party proper and raising his can of beer in the air so sharply that a good amount of it sloshes out and all over him. “Who among you will be the first to ply his mightiness with their offerings?” There is a polite smattering of eye-rolls and small smiles in response. Remy sees Scott look over and stares back, watching as he says something quietly to Logan and unfolds himself from the porch. Several party-goers Remy doesn’t know have dropped to their knees in front of him, giggling, and he nudges cans at them with his bare foot, saying “yes, yes, your grovelling pleases the pledge king. Now begone, and drink heavily of his many gifts.”

Scott is at arm’s length from Remy’s beer throne by the time the unknown group make their slightly unsteady way back to their positions on the lawn and he has a smirk on his face that Remy at once feels inclined to both touch and destroy. “Senior pledges are not required to pay tribute, are they, Gambit?” he asks, turning his head slightly to the side. Remy sees that Logan has now turned around to face the goings-on, his legs spread, dangling down either side of a porch railing, joined at the ankle where two enormous black boots are twitching almost imperceptibly.

“Everyone must pay tribute, my lord Summers. It is the law of the land.” Remy adopts his most aristocratic drawl, which is, admittedly, more roguish than refined.

“What kind of tribute?” Scott asks.

He drops his voice so that only Scott can hear him. “The king accepts all kinds, lord Summers,” Remy replies, taking a drag of his cigarette and leaving it in his mouth so that a reddish glow lights up his face, reflected for a second in his eyes.

Scott’s grin spreads to the other side of his face and he thrusts his hands into his pockets. “Sounds like you’ve got something in mind, Gambit.”

Just for a second, Remy imagines what it would be like to grab Scott by the belt and tug until the whole length of his body was pressed against Remy’s. What it would be like to smack Scott’s sharp chin into his own and force Scott’s lips open with his tongue, plunging it into Scott’s mouth and retreating to clamp teeth down on Scott’s bottom lip. What it would be like, after a shocked instant, to have Scott crush his body back into Remy’s, to feel his own mouth explored by Scott’s tongue. What it would be like to thrust his hips against Scott’s hips, to grab Scott’s ass with both hands and squeeze, while all the while feeling Scott’s surprised but increasingly loud and insistent breathing on his mouth, his neck, an earlobe, as Scott pressed himself closer to Remy, snaking a finger down Remy’s spine.

Instead, Remy just grins, his face a mirror of Scott’s, before finally saying “Your gloves, lord Summers. The pledge king demands your gloves.”

Remy can feel his heartbeat quicken, feels instantly that he has crossed a line, and cannot suppress the little buzz of pleasure that runs throughout his entire body. Scott’s face is unreadable, his hands still in his pockets and his smile still in place, head cocked slightly to the side. As he takes a deep swig of his beer, a little voice inside Remy’s head says _this is why you never make real friends, you’re always taking risks, thinking you can bluff them, if you just played nice for once maybe you wouldn’t have to keep finding new people to run with, what is wrong with you, it’s no wonder no one ever feels comfortable around you_ but a different voice replies _yes, but fuck it_ and Remy hears the words “Come on, chère, I haven’t got all day” come out of his mouth, and another tingle of pure excitement shoots through him.

For an instant, Scott hesitates and Remy is planning an exit strategy. _Probably have enough to get a cab home if I walk a bit of the way first, could sneak out the side without anyone seeing if I had to..._ but then he sees it: Scott has removed his hands from his pockets and has brought one glove up to his mouth, his eyes never breaking contact with Remy’s. As Scott’s teeth clamp around the finger tip of one glove and tug upwards, Remy notices that Logan is staring directly at him over the top of Scott’s head.

 _Ahh, Remy thinks. Time to stir the pot_.

Scott leaves the glove in his mouth as he uses his free hand to remove the other, before spitting it out and handing the pair to Remy. Remy nudges a beer towards Scott with his foot and then frees a second from its paper case. “For your boy,” he says, nodding towards Logan. “He don’t got to pay tribute to the pledge king, because the pledge king likes his hair the way it is, thank you very much.”

“Well it is very fetching,” Scott replies, eyeing the uneven pigtails before bending over and scooping up both cans in one hand.

Remy does not watch Scott’s ass as he walks back to the porch, Logan’s expression darkening by the second. He does not watch as Scott opens the ring pull with his teeth and gestures at Logan to take the second can. Remy does, however, watch Logan take said can from Scott without taking his eyes off Remy, open it and tilt his head backwards, chugging the entire beer in a single mouthful. Scott leans against the porch beside Logan and sips at his beer, tilting it towards Remy in a silent toast. Logan crushes the now empty can with one hand, tossing it aside before swinging himself down to the ground.

 _Uh oh_ says the first voice in Remy’s head, as Logan begins to thunder towards him.

 _Fuck **yes**_ says the second.

Remy tugs one hand into the gloves Scott gave him, followed by the other. Surprisingly, they are a perfect fit, and Remy can still rummage around in his pockets for cigarettes, can still work a regular lighter, can text. Infinitely useful, these hipster gloves. They aren’t going to protect him from a murderous Logan, though. Remy flashes the man what he feels is his most charming smile, letting it spread to his eyes as they glint pure mischief at Logan. _Wolverine. His pledge name is **Wolverine**_. The thought comes unbidden to Remy and the smile disappears as the much, much larger man gets within reach.

Logan stops at the foot of Remy’s beer throne, his expression empty but his eyes focused so intently on Remy that Remy is surprised he hasn’t simply expired right there. The tiny part of him with any sense of self interest swallows whatever cheeky line was about to tumble from his lips, and he simply bends over to get Logan another beer.

Pain shoots through his scalp as he feels a rough hand on the back of his head, close to his neck. Logan has grabbed him firmly by one of his pigtails, his grip a vice around the shoelace, forcing Remy to remain bent over. Remy’s eyes go wide and dropping his cigarette, he immediately attempts to jerk his head free. All this achieves is another splinter of pain tearing through him, and he grunts at it. Logan leans down so that their foreheads touch, and he smacks the can away from Remy’s hand with his free one.

“I thought everyone had to pay tribute,” Logan snarls, bringing them both up to standing. Remy’s body goes rigid as he sucks in a lungful of air. He sees one of Logan’s enormous black boots close in on the still burning cigarette, watches as it twists, the ember crushed into the slightly damp grass, extinguished. “So why’d I get a freebie, then?”

Remy swallows, hard. Then he brings both his arms up, as if in surrender, and wiggles his gloved fingers. “Two gloves, two beers,” he replies.

An ugly smile spreads across Logan’s face, and he finally releases Remy’s hair. “Last thing I’d want is to be in debt to that douche. Come on.” And with that, Logan turns around and saunters off towards the side of the house. A part of Remy can’t help but notice that the side is completely hidden from view from the rest of the party, and the phrase _no witnesses_ rings through his brain, but Scott has watched Logan’s every move and Remy can’t deny that his whole body is a mix of tingling fear and excitement, so he casts his eyes around momentarily before tugging on his other boot. He spots Charles, who raises his eyebrows in a silent question, a look of concern clear on his face. Remy goes to lace up the boot only to discover that said laces are missing. He throws a quick “a-okay” gesture and a wink towards the Professor before heading off after Logan.

Dimly aware that Scott is following several paces behind, Remy pulls at the collar of his coat and runs a hand through his hair. Oh, right. There’s the lace, he thinks to himself, pulling his hair free of its ties, tossing the rubber band to the ground and shoving the bootlace into a pocket of his jeans. Remy shakes his hair loose and in the light pouring out from the house, it is slightly copper, falling in messy strands to just above his shoulder.

Logan is standing with his arms crossed over his chest, facing Remy with a smirk on his face and an unreadable expression in his eyes. Despite the cool temperatures, his arms are bare and Remy traces the outline of them with his eyes, taking in the line of muscle and the ripple of skin tight over tendon, the huge expanse of thick, black hair on his forearms, the backs of his hands, poking out of the neckline of his top. He steps closer and swallows, hard.

“Listen, man, sorry if I was over-stepping it before. I, I don’t actually think I’m, like, king of the pledges or anything, it was Magneto who said that first, I just -” Logan has stepped in closer to Remy now, and Remy can’t remember what he was saying.

“Nah, bub, it suits you. ‘Sides, you procured all of that excellent beer,” the words essentially purr out of Logan, and Remy is struck by a feral desire to have the man’s hands on him again, to have him speak in low, guttural moans while he touched Remy, anywhere, just anywhere as long as he could see those arms and listen to that voice. “Anyway, I drank one, so here’s my fuckin’ tribute.”

In an instant, he closes the distance between them. He has one arm around Remy’s neck, a fist full of Remy’s hair, and a vice-tight grip on Remy’s hip with the other hand. Remy watches, frozen, as Logan flicks his eyes to look at something behind Remy for a moment so brief it may never have happened before tilting his head slightly and crashing his mouth onto Remy’s. His hands pull Remy in closer and they are touching in so many places Remy couldn’t even begin to catalogue them. Logan sucks at Remy’s bottom lip until it parts from his top, and slides his tongue inside Remy’s mouth, the hand in Remy’s hair alternating between gentle tugs and open-palmed pressure.

The kiss is far more tender than Remy would have expected. Logan tastes like cigarettes and beer and he leans in to Remy, letting a sigh escape as he presses his hips into Remy’s. Remy brings one gloved hand to rest on Logan’s hip and as Logan begins scraping his teeth gently over Remy’s lip Remy slides his thumb inside the pocket of Logan’s jeans. He can feel the outline of Logan’s hip bones through the denim, and as he returns the intensity of the kiss, Remy grinds against Logan’s groin. The sigh turns into a growl and Logan abruptly moves his hand from Remy’s hip to his ass and squeezes.

Remy moans into Logan’s mouth and brings a hand up to the back of Logan’s head, forcing Logan’s mouth open with his tongue before plunging it deeper inside the other man’s mouth. Remy pulls his hips backwards, away from Logan’s, their chests crushed together and writhing as they each try to deepen the kiss, to taste more, to feel more of the other’s hot breath and sharp teeth. Logan breathes out into Remy’s mouth, the hot air spilling over his lips and cheek. He feels his nipple rings tug slightly as Logan adjusts to close the minute distance between them again and a gasp escapes Remy. He feels Logan grin but the kiss does not stop, and Remy brings his lower torso back against Logan’s. He is hard, harder than he should be from just a kiss, but then again, so is Logan, and before his brain has properly processed this fact, Remy has rubbed himself against the shape of it.

Logan grunts and pulls on Remy’s hair, hard, until Remy’s neck is stretched out and Remy shuts his eyes, completely lost to the sensation of his cock rutting against Logan’s through their pants. Logan seizes Remy’s neck with his mouth, applying mostly teeth but also some tongue, and Remy emits a low, guttural moaned “Oh, _fuck_ ,” and he can feel Logan smile on his skin as he sucks and licks at a spot on Remy just below his ear.

Once he is satisfied with his labours, Logan presses his lips gently to the spot that will soon become a blisteringly purple hickey, and disentangles his hand from Remy’s hair. Opening his eyes, Remy catches Logan looking behind him again, to something in the distance, but he is too concerned with remembering how to swallow and breath and how it felt not to be painfully hard in the middle of an extremely public gathering to think much about it.

He is aware of the absence of Logan before he really registers that the man has walked away, and turns to see him disappear behind the house. Gingerly, he brushes an ungloved finger over the love mark left by Logan and blinks a few times.

 _Pot stirred, I guess_ , he thinks to himself, before turning around to rejoin the party.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A teensy update to include Scott's perspective on Logan's offering to the Pledge King, and the aftermath.

“‘m going to get a beer, you want one, fuckface?” Scott asks, eyeing Gambit and his throne of stolen Zeta beer.

Logan just snarls, and turns around to face the party proper. Scott decides that means “yes” so he hops down from the porch and heads over to Gambit. Before he really realises what has happened, a goddamned    
_  
pledge   
_

has swindled him out of his brand new gloves, and he’s not 100% sure, but he thinks that he may have just slightly flirted with aforementioned pledge, a little bit. _This is getting out of fucking_ _ hand _ ,  Scott thinks to himself. He never used to be the type of person who’d poke at a sore tooth, or pick at a scab,  _ just because it’s there _ . But then this fucking ROTC boy showed up and started eating Scott’s cereal out of the goddamned bowl with his fucking bare hands and leaving shirts in Scott’s laundry that smell of woodsmoke and rope and all of a sudden Scott is forced to confront parts of himself that he would rather ignore.

Scott cracks his beer and passes one to Logan, who has not stopped staring at the pledge.

"Gave him your gloves," Logan says, not looking at Scott. 

"Yeah," he answers.

And with that, Logan has pounded the entire can and is sliding off the porch, headed for Gambit. When Logan grabs him by the hair, Scott knows he should do something, _anything_ , because jesus christ what does that fucking lunatic think he’s doing, and then Gambit’s doing jazz hands for some reason, wearing Scott’s gloves, and then Logan’s walking away, squaring his shoulders and flexing his hands into fists. Without really thinking about it, Scott follows them. He hears “so here’s my fuckin’ tribute” and watches as Logan crashes into Remy, kissing him. __

_Oh my god_ , Scott thinks to himself, struck dumb and standing rigidly a little way away from them. _Oh my god Logan is making out with the pledge. Logan is making out with the pledge and I am watching_ _him do it. Fuck, did he just look at me? FUCK, I’m still watching them make out. Fuck. Shit fuck fuck FUCKING SHIT FUCK. Oh yeah dude, cop a fucken feel why don’t you, jesus could you guys be humping each other any harder? Great. Is Logan giving him a fucking_ _  
hickey_ _? This is the worst. Why am I still watching._

A burst of lust shoots through him as he watches Logan suck on Remy’s neck, and Scott jams his eyes closed. __

 _Move, Summers, jesus fucking christ just move your goddamned feet so that you are not here watching Logan kiss-rape a fucking pledge_. 

Without opening his eyes he finally turns away from Logan and Remy, heading back towards the beer throne. He picks up a six pack and disappears inside the house.

-

"s’not like I even give two kinds of shit about it," Scott slurs, trying to get his eyes to focus on the kid he’s bailed up on a couch in the living room an hour later. "Fuck ‘em, right?" he adds as he gulps down more of "what the fuck is in this shit, dude?" he asks, indicating the plastic cup full of some kind of punch he’s not quite sure where he acquired. "Have you tried this? It is like being punched in the teeth by a fucking fruit salad."

"Naw, man, I’m gonna go try some. Later," is the only response he gets. Scott sinks further into the couch cushions and leans his head back, letting everything swing wildly behind his eyelids. 

_Fuck ‘em. What fuck s’it matter to me who he fucks, s’not like I give a shit, fuck ‘em_.

The party winds down around him and he curls up on himself, feeling the tight ache that has spread through his chest and stomach roil. Scott slips into the blissful unconsciousness of the entirely inebriated. 

_  
Fuck him _ .

-

He wakes up stretched out on the couch, and immediately regrets it. _Noooooo_ he thinks. _Nooooo! Fuck. Everything is the worst._ He feels nauseous. His head is literally going to kill him. He is going to _die_. Then he remembers the evening before, and what his hungover brain is capable of recognising as jealousy punches him in the chest, and Scott thinks fondly back to that magical time when he was just hungover, and not hungover as well as  jealous that Logan had kissed someone else.

Immediately, the notion of going back to sleep seems like the greatest idea in the history of the world, but long years of experience have taught him not to lose consciousness in the shared areas of the house. He’s about eighty percent sure someone has already Sharpie’d his face, probably with a dinosaur in the shape of a dick, but his first priority still needs to be getting into his own bed. He grabs a water bottle out of the fridge and heads upstairs, mostly by memory and feel because he would absolutely rather get punched in the nuts a thousand times over than open his eyes right now. Once he makes it to his room he sheds his shirt and undoes the buckle of his belt before sinking gingerly into the sheets. 

He’s asleep before he even manages to get his belt off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Scott, you're so eloquent when drunk and jealous! Please get your shit together soon so I can write delicious slogany makeouts, mmkay?


End file.
